


and now i'm covered (in you)

by benjji2795



Category: 9-1-1 (TV)
Genre: Accidental moving in, Eddie would rather jump off a bridge than talk about his feelings, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rated teen for language, a serving of trauma, also we're just playing the hits here, and buck is just so in love and also confused, and christopher of course being his wonderful self, that's the gist of the story here, there's buck whump, with a sprinkle of nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 05:14:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30050430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benjji2795/pseuds/benjji2795
Summary: alternatively titled "Eddie would rather jump off a bridge than talk about his feelings for Buck, and Buck is just so confused."
Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV)
Comments: 44
Kudos: 483





	and now i'm covered (in you)

**Author's Note:**

> I have not posted in three and a half years. This is probably a mess, and I apologize in advance, but these boys just got me feeling some kind of way, and I had to try my hand at writing them.
> 
> This takes place in some nebulous future after 4x07, but Ana doesn't exist and also the pandemic is over because I didn't feel like putting that much effort into thinking about how it would affect the story.
> 
> Eddie's character is 100% based on the fact that I'm pretty sure he does not want to talk about feelings in any way, shape or form. Let's remember, he decided *street fighting* was better than going to therapy. If people could just read his mind and know what he's feeling 24/7, he'd be great. But they can't. So instead - this happened.
> 
> Not beta-d, so let me know if you see any horrific mistakes.
> 
> Title from [ivy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9nIOx-ezlzA) by Taylor Swift

It was the worst date of his life, but it was supposed to be _over_. They took dessert to go, and he expected to never see her again. But Veronica, like that one rerun episode that comes up every time you turn the TV on, keeps coming back. And worse, he's been betrayed, utterly _betrayed_ by Albert, because now he's started dating her, with no regard for how this is completely ruining his life. Because she's always there, every time Buck turns around. Not a moment of peace is to be found when Buck's in his apartment building.

It was a rough shift. They didn't lose anyone, and none of the calls were difficult. No five alarm fires or multi-car pile ups. Just calls from people being stupid. And there were _a lot_ of those. Buck thinks that he was at the station for maybe an hour during his whole shift.

His apartment used to be his oasis. A place where he can go after a long day. He used to sit on the couch, watch TV and relax. But not anymore.

Buck can hear her before he sees her, her little giggle leaking through the door before he can even get it open. He stops and takes a breath, contemplating whether a few minutes awkward interaction is worth it to make it to his bed. She laughs again, and he can hear Albert speaking indistinguishable words and it's just. Buck can't do it. Not tonight.

He turns on his heel and walks away.

* * *

He goes back to the station.

He feels a little awkward walking back in, especially since he just left forty-five minutes ago. He knows he's not the first firefighter ever to spend time at the station after hours. It's just never happened to him before. After hours station time is usually reserved for people on the outs with their spouses/partners, or the most enthusiastic of the probies, always eager to get more training, even off the clock. Not him.

Of course, the only reason he's coming to the station is because Eddie is working overtime and has a few hours left on shift. Otherwise, Buck would probably be on his doorstep, unannounced. And Eddie would smile sympathetically and invite him in, not the least bit put out by the intrusion. They rarely make plans to hang out anymore, Buck just kind of—shows up, and then they would watch movies or play games, or just chill and watch TV.

It had been happening a lot, even before Veronica.

Eddie spots him when he reaches the top of the stairs to the loft, and tilts his head sympathetically. “Veronica?”

Buck shrugs, gives him a pained half-grin. “Who else?” he says, then makes himself at home on the couch while Eddie hovers behind him. “I don't get it. She literally lives across the hall, but she's always in _my_ apartment!”

Eddie hums thoughtfully, even though Buck has told him this very same thing at least a half-dozen times over the last two weeks.

“You just need to talk to him again,” Eddie says, ever the voice of reason. Bastard.

“It's hard to be more direct than 'I don't want her in the apartment',” Buck sighs. “That didn't exactly work.”

If Eddie notices that Buck isn't being completely truthful, he doesn't call him out on it. The truth is that Buck hasn't been—can't be that direct, with either Albert or Veronica. After the lawsuit and his near fist-fight with Eddie at the grocery store, and the weeks only tentative acceptance of his return, Buck generally finds himself walking on eggshells. Avoiding confrontation, since that was what had gotten him into that mess in the first place.

And he's not going to end up in a mess by confronting Albert and Veronica. But months of ingrained habits are hard to break. He's working on it in therapy, is going to break out of it eventually. In the meantime, he pretends that he's facing up to the issues in his life, and Eddie doesn't call him out that he's full of shit.

“You could always move out,” Eddie suggests. Apparently just because Eddie isn't calling him out doesn't mean that he's willing to put up with Buck's complaining forever. Which is fair.

Buck pouts anyway, because complaining is always easier and preferable to finding solutions. “It was hard enough to find that place with my salary,” he grumbles. “My chances of finding another? A big fat zero.”

Eddie hums again. If he's thinking of the other solution to the problem—asking Albert to move out—gratefully, he doesn't mention it. If he can't confront them about spending too much time in his apartment, he has no chance of ever telling Albert to move out.

“Great, so that's it,” he groans when Eddie doesn't have any other suggestions. “I just have to live with a person I hate for the rest of my life.”

“That's being a little dramatic,” Eddie says, patting Buck on the shoulder. And it's definitely patronizing, but it's Eddie, so Buck lets him.

“Eddie, _help_ ,” Buck whines, flopping over so he's looking directly up at Eddie.

Eddie pauses, sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, then shrugs. “You spend half your nights on my couch anyway. You could stay for a couple of weeks. Just until things get figured out. Christopher would be thrilled.”

And Buck would think he's joking—his words read as a joke—but Eddie looks serious. Or not serious, but like, determinedly neutral. It's a weird look.

It's not like Buck hasn't considered making his residence on Eddie's couch permanent before. Eddie never seems to seriously move to make him leave, almost seems disappointed when he begs off and does anyway. Eddie's offering and he's right Christopher would be _thrilled_ and Buck wants to say yes, but—

Living in the Diaz house would be playing at some illusion of domesticity, a young child's game of “House”, but with real, heart-wrenching consequences for Buck. It would be like grasping at something he wants to hold onto forever, but destined to slip through his fingers like grains of sand. No matter how short or long he stayed, Eddie would eventually ask him to move on, move out, and that might just break him.

He's saved from having to give an answer when the alarm rings, and Eddie has to head to the truck.

“Think about it, okay?” Eddie asks, and Buck nods, an easy response to give, because he will. It'll be the only thing he can think about all night.

Sometimes it's crazy ~~scary~~ how easily Eddie can derail his thoughts. Such are the perils of unrequited love, Buck guesses.

* * *

He doesn't get to make a choice, not really.

* * *

The universe exists solely to fuck with him, Buck thinks. It that, or that it's purely out to get him.

They're called to a house fire on Buck's next shift. The neighbors called it in, so they're operating on the assumption that the residents are incapacitated. It's up to him and Eddie to do a sweep of the house, make sure no one is trapped.

The house seems to be mostly stable. There's no fire visible when they walk in the front door, though thick smoke hangs over them, hovering close the ceiling. There's bright orange glow to their right, coming from the kitchen. Bobby already turned off the gas, so they don't have to worry about any explosions (fingers crossed). They go upstairs first, Eddie going right and Buck going left. They don't talk about it. They never do.

Buck checks the first bedroom. It's a little girls room, and she's maybe no older than seven or eight, judging by the pink paint and unicorn posters. The bed is made immaculately, no one appears to have slept in it for a day or two. He checks the closet, under the bed, in the laundry hamper, but there's no signs of life.

There is, however, a dark mahogany dresser over in the corner, with a door large enough for a child to climb in and hide. He opens the door, but there's no one in there. He checks the drawers too, just for good measure.

The whole house groans, which is not unusual. It's shifting, reacting to the effect that the fire is having on the structure. It's normal, not a cause for concern, except that Buck can feel the floorboards bending under his feet.

So check that, the universe isn't out to get him. It's trying to kill him. Like he managed to cheat death, and now it's coming back to collect. Like those Final Destination movies that terrified him as a kid.

He barely manages to key his radio. “Ed—” he gets out, but then he's falling.

He only falls one story. The ground level flooring hasn't been compromised, and catches him solidly. If that had been the extent of it, Buck would be fine. Bruised, but still able to walk out under his own power. But as further proof that he's cursed, the dresser he'd been examining had tumbled with him, and landed directly on his leg. It's once he has this realization that a shooting pain goes up his leg. Probably broken. Hopefully just a simple fracture. The thing feels like it weighs at least 70 pounds.

He throws up a quick word of thanks to whatever entity is out there looking after him that it's his other leg, not the one crushed by the ladder truck. It already took the best doctors LA had to offer to fix that leg the first time. He's not sure they have a second miracle in them.

At least three different people are calling for him on the radio—probably the whole 118, if he were to stop and pick out the voices. But he doesn't pay attention to them, because Eddie is already bounding down the stairs.

Eddie kneels next to him. “I've got him, Cap,” he shouts out once the radio clears. “He had a piece of furniture fall on him. Possible broken leg—”

“Definitely broken,” Buck grits out.

Eddie ignores him. “Doesn't look like any other injuries, but Hen will have to check him out to know for sure.”

“If you don't think there's any other injuries, you can move it,” Hen breaks in, voice crackling over the radio.

“Copy that,” Eddie answers, then tosses the thing off him like it was nothing.

“I didn't finish sweeping my side of the house,” Buck says, tapping Eddie insistently.

Eddie looks over his shoulder. “Looks like the fire's out,” he says. “It's not urgent now.”

“Homeowners are here,” Bobby announces into the radio. “No one was supposed to be in the house, so we should be good. Hen, Chim—”

“On it,” they both say before Bobby can finish.

Eddie sighs. “This has got to stop happening.” He takes his helmet off, wipes his forehead.

“Not my fault,” Buck replies. And for once, it's not. Usually he gets hurt because he disobeys direct orders (see: perfume factory fire), or takes completely necessary but dangerous risks. This time he did everything right, and he _still_ got hurt. Just lends more credence to the theory that the universe is trying to kill him.

“I know,” Eddie breathes out, then glances down. Buck watches Eddie go pale, feels a surge of panic rise up in his throat.

“Uh, Hen?” Eddie says into the radio.

“Yes Eddie?”

“Bring the board. His uh—Buck's foot is pointing the wrong way,” he explains.

So much for a simple fracture. Buck doesn't pound his fist on the floor, but it's a near thing. He wants to throw a tantrum like a small kid because Goddamnit, why does this always happen to him? But Eddie is stroking his arm comfortingly, and it's hard to be focused on the frustration or pain when Eddie's touching him.

It's hard to tear his eyes away from Eddie, but he does, looks up at the ceiling and the hole where he fell through. There's no fire damage, none whatsoever in this room, and Buck just groans. It's the only part of the ceiling that's damaged. It must have been a weak spot in the architecture, and when the house shifted, it bent the floorboards. Add the weight of the dresser and Buck, they just gave out. Wrong place, wrong time. Story of his life, really.

“Fuck,” Eddie mutters. “You have the worst luck.”

Buck barks out a hollow laugh.

And then Hen and Chim are there, and Eddie doesn't step back, just moves so he's out of their way. Buck's been through the drill before, answers their questions before they can ask them. No head injury, no signs of internal injury, just a hell of a lot of pain when Hen asks him to wiggle his toes. But he does wiggle them successfully, and Hen nods.

“Doesn't look like any tendon or muscle damage,” she says, and sets Chim to work stabilizing his leg. “You're going to be just fine,” she coos to him.

Buck looks down at his leg, and his foot, pointing straight out to the right instead of up, and wonders if it's more serious, and she's just trying to keep him from panicking.

“You don't think he broke any blood vessels,” Eddie asks, looking resolutely at Hen and not at Buck's foot. They've both seen worse, but he gets the feeling that seeing it on Buck is harder to stomach than the random people they see every day.

“I don't think so,” Hen answers. “But that is going to be a bitch to reset,” she adds, then clicks her mouth shut audibly.

“I've been through worse,” Buck says dejectedly.

“I can give you something for the pain if you want,” Hen says, and Buck shakes her off. But then they lift him onto the board and he shouts. Hen seems to decide that he needs it anyway, and gives him a shot.

She does, and after few moments, he doesn't exactly lose consciousness, but it's suddenly a lot harder to focus on the bodies and voices swirling around him. In the end, he decides it's not worth it, and just allows himself to float along. The only thing he can register for sure is Eddie scrubbing a hand through Buck's hair, saying “I'll be at the hospital in a bit.”

* * *

Buck hates hospitals, but he tries to be grateful that night when he wakes up and doesn't hear the beeping of machines, or have IV's sticking out of his arm. It's the best he's ever felt waking up in a hospital. Which is not to say he feels _great_ —just better than his past experiences.

The doctors had sedated him when they reset his leg, and he's just starting to come out of it. He still feels light-headed and not 100% in control, which he hates. But he's good to head home, now that the doctors have observed him for a couple of hours and ruled out the worst of the complications. But the doctors gives him a packet and warns him sternly to watch for signs of infection. She goes on about sepsis and amputation and some guy named Alex Smith.

He's too tired to follow. Buck's just going to shove the paper at whoever is taking him home and make it their problem.

His cast isn't that heavy, but the exhaustion runs deep and every crutch closer to the exit is harder to take. An orderly offered to wheel him out, but he'd declined. Idly, Buck realizes that he now understands why Christopher wants to be carried after long days with lots of walking. Using crutches while tired is _hard_.

Eddie is the one waiting for Buck when he finally reaches the waiting room. He probably volunteered, then shooed everyone away, insisting that Buck would be fine, just tired, and wouldn't want a bunch of people crowding him after a long day. Buck loves him, has to bite back the words as Eddie stands and walks up to him.

Eddie's shoulders are tense, his jaw clenched, and he has a slightly hunted look to his eyes. Buck wants for him to feel better, so he tries to reassure him.

“Compared to the last few times I've been here, this was nothing. First time in a while you haven't had to worry about me dying back there.” Buck tries to keep his tone light and airy, communicate to Eddie that there's nothing to worry about, but it doesn't work, not even close.

Eddie's face just kind of—crumples, and he makes a strangled noise. “Buck that's not even close to being funny,” Eddie says, and whoops. Apparently it came out sounding like a joke. Buck might think he's being scolded, if not for the fact that steps forward and crushes him in a hug. Buck is surprised, and almost drops his crutches. Kinda wishes that he did, because now he has to stand there and awkwardly accept the hug without hugging back.

“'M sorry,” he mumbles into Eddie's shoulder. He doesn't want Eddie to be this upset or worried about him, especially over something as simple as a broken leg. It's not even crushed this time.

“You think that makes it better?” Eddie snaps. Buck is exhausted, and also still a little high, apparently. Seems that his brain-to-mouth filter has completely disengaged.

Eddie pulls back to look at him, and softens immediately. “Besides, I always worry about you.”

And this is—it's too tender, too emotionally charged for Buck to be able to deal with in his current state. He needs to leave, to escape the heaviness of Eddie's gaze before he does something stupid, like confess his love or kiss Eddie on the mouth for caring so much about him.

Buck tries to shake the feeling out of his head. “Can you take me home now?” He asks, trying to distract himself from the steady beat of _love you, love you, love you_ in his head. “Even my couch sounds better than standing for another minute.

Eddie scoffs. “Yeah, you're not going back to your apartment,” he says firmly. Buck should have foresaw this. “The last thing I— _we_ need is for you to break your neck trying to get up the stairs to your bed.”

“I told you I was sleeping on the couch,” Buck grumbles.

“So you can then call me and whine about how your back hurts? I don't think so,” Eddie says.

“You didn't fuss this much when the ladder truck fell on me,” Buck replies.

And sure, Buck absolutely would rather be with Eddie than anywhere else right now. But he also doesn't trust himself enough to handle being around Eddie in this state.

Eddie's face does a complicated thing that Buck has no hope of deciphering right now. “I should have,” is all he says.

Buck opens his mouth to protest, because Eddie may not have fussed, but he was there. Constantly.

Eddie just shakes his head. “C'mon,” he says. “You look dead on your feet. Let's go.”

Buck can't really argue with that.

“Hey, wouldn't I just be sleeping on the couch at your place too?” Buck asks.

Eddie shakes his head. “I've got a plan. Don't worry about it.”

* * *

Eddie spends so much time glancing over at Buck in the passenger seat on the ride to his house that Buck nearly admonishes him to keep his eyes on the road. The last thing Buck needs is for them both to end up back at the hospital because Eddie is worrying too much.

“Is Christopher home?” Buck asks. He should already know the answer. If you asked any other day, he could answer without a second thought. But his brain is operating at _maybe_ 25% capacity. Probably more like 15%. And at least 13% is focused on not blurting out a love confession.

“Uh, he was supposed to stay with Abuela tonight. She's usually pretty good but she uh, let slip you got hurt so.” Eddie exhales and runs hand through his hair. He must have been doing that a lot today, because his normally perfect style has been replaced by hair sticking up in some places, and flopping in others. “They're both waiting at home. Christopher pitched a fit until she promised he could see you were okay.”

“Sorry,” Buck mumbles, though privately, he feels warm and fuzzy all over at the idea that Christopher would be so concerned about him.

Eddie shrugs. “Don't apologize. You're not the one who told him.”

“No, it's not—I'm sorry he worries about me,” Buck replies. Christopher is ten, he doesn't need to spend time consumed with concern for him.

Eddie stares at him for a second, blinks, then turns back to the road. “Christopher loves you,” he says. “You can't tell him _not_ to worry.”

Buck opens his mouth, then snaps it shut. He's not exactly sure how to handle all the feelings that have been thrown his way in the last thirty minutes. Doesn't know how to react to them except to dwell on how much he loves Eddie and Christopher so Goddamn much. Which is dangerous because he doesn't feel in control of his mouth. Lingering effects of the drugs and exhaustion and all that.

“That's sweet,” is what he settles for saying instead.

Buck would die for Christopher, loves him like he was his own kid. He figured that Christopher definitely _liked_ him, liked him a lot even, but for Eddie to say that the kid loves him. That's—shit, Buck needs to get to sleep before all this emotional stuff being thrown at him makes him break down and cry.

It wasn't that serious an injury, and yet Eddie is out here acting like Buck almost died again. Maybe he's just tired too. The entire firehouse has a tendency to overreact when one of their own gets hurt. That's probably why Eddie is overly concerned.

Eddie doesn't say anything else, and Buck looks out the window, watches the cars and buildings pass by, and zones out. Best that he doesn't try to talk now, nothing good can come of it.

* * *

“Buck!”

Buck winces, can't help it. The sedatives are wearing off, and now he's dehydrated, with a massive headache, on top of the dull, throbbing pain in his bad leg and the dull ache in his other leg, which he always gets when he has to favor it too much. Christopher, for his part, looks contrite as he crutches up to him and wraps himself around Buck's good leg.

“Hi Buck,” he says, quieter this time.

“Hey buddy,” Buck replies. Any other time, he would crouch down, get on Christopher's level so he can talk to him eye to eye, but that would require taking the crutches out from under his arms, and _that_ would probably just lead to Buck falling over. He settles for ruffling his hair instead.

“Are you okay?” Christopher asks earnestly, is struck by how much Christopher looks like Eddie when his face twists up in apprehension.

Buck, for like the millionth time tonight, feels his chest constrict at the kid's genuine concern for him.

“Yeah, of course.” Buck smiles, tired as he is. It's impossible not to when Christopher is around him. “Just hurt my leg a bit. Doctor says I'm gonna be just fine soon.”

Christopher watches his face closely, then nods, apparently satisfied by Buck's answer.

“Alright, _mijo_ ,” Eddie says, sweeping him up and placing him on his hip. “It's already way past your bedtime.”

“But I want to stay with Buck,” Christopher whines petulantly.

“I'm sending Buck off to bed after you,” Eddie says. “Say goodnight.”

“Night Bucky,” Christopher says, reaching out and patting Buck on the head. “Feel better.”

Eddie heads off down the hall as Christopher continues to grumble, but allows himself to be carried off without a fight.

Abuela emerges from the kitchen, apron on and wooden spoon in hand. “You must be hungry, no?” she asks.

Food has been the last thing on his mind all day. He hadn't thought about being hungry until she said something, but now he's fucking _starving_. He nods vigorously.

“Go. Sit, I will bring you some soup,” she says, motioning in the direction of the living room with her spoon. “I made soup that I make for them when they are sick. I tell Christopher you are not sick, but he makes convincing argument that injured is a kind of sick.”

“You didn't have to do that,” Buck replies, because he doesn't understand why they all seem to worry about him so much. It's messing with his head. “It's late, you're probably tired too. You should—”

He was going to tell her she should go home, but she fixes him with a stern look that makes him feel like he'll get whacked with the wooden spoon if he tries say another word. Instead he just swallows his protest and slowly crutches off to the living room.

Eddie is already there, arranging the coffee table, couch and pillows so that Buck can settle down.

“I don't think Christopher has ever gotten ready for bed that fast,” Buck says.

Eddie doesn't look up from the pillow he's fluffing up. “Told me that he could do it himself tonight. Said you needed more help than him.”

“I don't really need that much help.” Buck shrugs. “I have been through this before. Other leg, but.”

Eddie goes pale again, looks like he's been punched in the gut, and Buck would really like to know what he's saying to keep putting that look on his face. Any other time, he could probably figure it out. Or maybe not. He usually can figure out what Eddie's thinking, but sometimes there are moments where it feels like the answer is just out of his grasp. Those expressions that only last for fractions of a second, gone before Buck can even register it was there, let alone decipher it.

Buck doesn't even realize he's being maneuvered onto the couch, too busy watching Eddie to realize that Eddie's manhandling him. He should protest. He's _fine_ , he doesn't need to be fussed over. But he's just _so tired_ , and Eddie's hands are big, and strong, and warm. The protest dies before the air can even leave his lungs.

“Here. You must eat,” Abuela says, pushing the bowl into his hands.

The steam from the bowl wafts gently on his face, getting his eyes, and Buck tells himself that's reason why his eyes start to sting. Not because Eddie's Abuela made him soup that smells like love and comfort and warmth, and Eddie's fretting over him because he got hurt and Christopher insisted on staying up to see that he was fine.

“You Diazes are going to make me cry,” he mumbles.

“Soup will make you feel better,” Abuela says and pats him on the cheek.

“Thank you,” Eddie says, kissing Abuela on the cheek. “I think I can handle it from here.”

She eyes them both carefully. “Okay,” she finally says, nodding slowly. “But if you need anything, you call me, okay?”

“I will,” Eddie answers. Apparently satisfied, Abuela turns and walks into the kitchen.

After a few minutes, Buck hears the door click closed.

“You better start eating that,” Eddie says, pointing at the bowl still clutched between Buck's hands. “Or she's going to sense it. She'll come back and force-feed you like a toddler.”

Buck knows that this is special soup. He really should savor it, stop and actually taste the flavors. But he's so hungry. He fell before lunch, so he hasn't eaten since breakfast. So he scarfs it down while Eddie perches on the armrest, watching him with an amused look on his face.

“I'm—” Buck starts to say, Eddie's gentle gaze starting to feel almost oppressive, but before he can get more than syllable out, Eddie glares at him hard enough to make Buck swallow his words.

“If you say you're fine and don't need help one more time, I'm going to take that spoon and shove it down your throat to make you shut up,” Eddie quips.

Buck laughs, though he know Eddie is being completely serious. Eddie sighs and sits down next to him, pressing their shoulders together.

“Christopher is going to beg you to let him sign your cast,” Eddie says. “One of his classmates broke her arm a couple of weeks ago and asked the whole class to sign her cast. He talked about it for a whole day.”

Buck nods, because he heard about that too. “Well duh!” Buck grins. “That's the only good part of being in a cast. Will you sign it too?”

And there it is again. That almost imperceptible flicker of an expression. Not for the first time, Buck wishes he could see it long enough to know what it is.

“Of course, Buck.”

“Okay. But you can't sign your name bigger than Christopher's. He'll get jealous,” Buck says.

Eddie rolls his eyes, but grins anyway. “Well, we can't have that.”

“You roll your eyes, but it's a big deal,” Buck replies. “When I broke my arm in middle school, my best friend, Kyle, signed my cast super big, like you could see his name from ten feet away. But then this girl, Sandra—I had a huge crush on her. I mean, I had a huge crush on Kyle too. I didn't know it was that at the time, but I know now. But anyway, she came up to me and wanted to draw this like flower on it, and she was super pretty so I couldn't say no. But there's wasn't much space left on the cast, so long story short, she covered up half his name and he wouldn't talk to me for two whole days. I thought I was dying.”

“I will make sure that I don't sign my name too big, as long as you promise to never tell me about middle school Buck's crushes again,” Eddie says with a put-out sigh. Like this whole cast conversation was more than he bargained for.

“What about high school Buck?”

“I think it's time for bed,” Eddie says instead of responding to his question.

“Okay. Night,” Buck says, closing his eyes.

“Buck?”

“Shh, I'm trying to sleep.”

“I'm not letting you sleep on the couch,” Eddie replies.

Buck groans. “I'm too tired to move,” he whines. The longer he has been sitting here, the more exhaustion has settled deep into his bones. He thinks he could move, if he had to, but effort to do so doesn't seem worth it, just to sleep in a bed.

Eddie doesn't answer for a long moment. Buck cracks open an eye to see Eddie examining him with a pained look on his face. Before Buck can figure out what that look means, Eddie's bending over and picking him up, bridal style.

“Woah!” Buck protests.

“I told you, you're not sleeping on the couch,” Eddie grunts.

“Okay, but you at least gotta give a guy a warning before you pick him up. Also I'm like, taller and heavier than you, how are you doing this?”

“I used to carry wounded soldiers to safety, for miles if I had to. I can handle carrying you to bed,” Eddie answers.

Buck chooses not to respond. Eddie doesn't talk about his time in the military much, with Buck, or anyone else. Buck treasures the little stories, threads offered to him here and there, a glimpse at the person Eddie used to be, the experiences that made Eddie into who he is now.

Buck doesn't notice where he's being carried, until he's being deposited in Eddie's bed.

“What're you doing?”

“I don't want to find you crumpled up in the hallway in the morning because you tried to get up on your own,” Eddie says resolutely. “This way, I'm right here if you need help.”

Buck opens his mouth to protest, yet again, but Eddie simply waves him off and heads back out to the living room. He's engulfed in the smells, familiar and comforting, all _Eddie_ , and Buck is asleep before Eddie makes it back to the bedroom.

* * *

He's falling, in the darkness, until suddenly, he's surrounded by bright orange fireballs. Roaring, whooshing, consuming all the air until he can't breathe. He's flailing, panicking, his lungs seeming to collapse in on themselves, until the ground appears underneath him. And he should land hard, but instead he's simply on the ground like he'd been laying there, instead of falling.

The fire still rages around him, and he's in a room, familiar, like he's been here before. Buck tries to stand, but he's trapped. He turns, looks to see what's pinning him down, and the room he's in melts away. It's the ladder truck, on his leg, grinding, crushing, the pressure and weight of it unbearable.

He reaches, he shouts, looking for someone, _anyone_ , to come and help him. A figure approaches, apparating in front of him out of the darkness. But it's not help. It's that haunting, wicked smile, that psychopath, the one who blew up the truck, the one who has a bomb strapped to his chest. He laughs, a godawful sound, and then lifts his thumb, even as dozens of figures rush to stop him.

It all light, brightness and fire and he's screaming, screaming as the shockwave gets closer, threatening to engulf him, close—

“Buck!”

His eyes fly open and he scrambles, trying to move back and away from the flames his brain is still convinced are coming nearer.

“Buck.”

Eddie is sitting right there next to him, but in this state, Buck has to fight really hard to not swipe at him, like some kind of frightened, feral cat. Eddie, for his part, just waits, a perfect picture of calm and ease—though his hands are twitching, likely battling the urge to reach out and touch him. Buck wishes that he would, that he could trust himself to open his mouth and ask, but he can barely catch his breath.

His heart thunders in his chest, beating at the speed of light, and he nods. Tries to, anyway, hoping that the movement is enough of a signal. It is, because slowly, so as not to spook him, Eddie snakes an arm around his shoulders, squeezes him tightly. Buck focuses on the heat of Eddie's touch, trying to ground himself, remind his bewildered brain that he's not lying in the middle of the street, but he's in bed, he's safe.

Buck hangs his head, presses his hands to his face, tries to will his chest to stop fluttering and take slow, easy breaths. His freshly broken leg hurts, and his crushed leg aches.

“Nightmare?” Eddie murmurs. Buck lets out a soft, breathy almost-laugh, because it's a ridiculous question to ask. Eddie doesn't seem offended by his response, instead taking it as an affirmative answer. “Want to talk about it?”

“The ladder truck,” is all he says, and Eddie hums thoughtfully.

“Breaking your leg must have triggered the memory,” Eddie says, and if he weren't the only thing currently grounding him, keeping him from spinning out, Buck might snap at him for stating the obvious. Instead, he tries to take a deep breath, and he doesn't exactly succeed, but it's better than the gasping, shallow breaths he's been taking, and it helps a little more tension bleed out of his body.

“I thought—” Buck stops, squeezes his eyes shut, exhales shakily. “Thought I was over them.”

“You remember the garage full of fireworks?” Eddie asks. Buck nods. “I didn't think anything of it. But I—I got home and was lying in bed and it was all ringing in my ears. I fell asleep, but when I did I was. Suddenly I was in the desert again, hiding behind a crashed helicopter, bullets and RPGs whizzing past my head.” Eddie pauses. “I don't think you ever get over it. You just—get used to it, I guess.”

“You don't get over it, but I— _I_ should. I mean, you almost died in a warzone, and I just. Sure, getting my leg crushed hurt, but I wasn't going to die from it,” Buck stutters out, feeling silly that some non-threatening injury would make him feel this way.

“I don't think trauma works that way,” Eddie replies. He opens his mouth then closes it a few times. “I can't believe you didn't think you were going to die. I thought you were going to die. I thought we all were.”

“If—if I close my eyes, I can still see his face. As if I'd just seen him yesterday,” Buck says, and shudders. He blinks, tries to focus on Eddie carding a hand through his hair, trying to push the image of the kid's face as far back in his mind as he can.

“Me too.”

“I guess I just. Never processed this,” Buck says, after the silence stretches out between them for too long. “I—I wasn't going to therapy back then, so I just. Ignored it. And then it got replaced by the tsunami and so I guess I—I forgot about it.”

“Well. I suppose that gives you something to talk about in your next session,” Eddie says.

Buck laughs dryly. “I think if Dr. Copeland knew about all my traumas going in, she probably would've run the other way.”

“I can't imagine therapists think that way.”

There's another long silence between them.

“Are you going to be okay?” Eddie asks.

“Yeah, of course. You don't need to worry about me,” Buck answers, forcing a smile onto his face.

Eddie examines him warily, like he doesn't believe Buck's answer. And simultaneously, Buck wants Eddie to believe that he's fine, and to see right through it. After a moment, Eddie nods. “Okay,” he says. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Eddie's hand stills, then falls back to his side, and after a few minutes, Buck is pretty sure he's fallen back asleep. Buck's breathing is back to normal, and his heart is no longer beating like he just ran a marathon, but he still feels jumbled, jagged. The nightmare has faded, but the feeling remains. He feels cold, unprotected now that Eddie is no longer touching him, his grounding contact keeping his mind here, in this bedroom, instead of back out on the asphalt.

He won't be able to go back to sleep, never really has been after a nightmare, but he slides back down the bed and lays his head on the pillow. He'll spend the rest of the night staring at the ceiling, but he can be still and quiet, so that Eddie isn't forced to stay up with him.

He's still blinking at the ceiling minutes later when an arm is flung over his chest. Buck turns his head, but Eddie's eyes are still closed. Eddie is probably asleep, doesn't know that he's doing it, but Buck clings to his arm like a lifeline anyway. Eddie makes a snuffling sound in response, but doesn't snatch his arm back.

Buck closes his eyes, focuses on Eddie's warm presence next to him, and somehow, drifts back off to sleep.

* * *

“I'm sorry,” Buck says.

“I told you, it's fine,” Eddie replies, waving at him dismissively. “It's not the first time I've had to work a weekend.”

Buck pokes a piece of bacon in the pan., recoils a little when the grease pops unexpectedly. “Yeah, but if it wasn't for me, you wouldn't have to work.”

He's perched on a stool in Eddie's kitchen, trying to make breakfast before Eddie leaves for work. The stool allows him to sit directly between the stove and the island, so he can spin and make use of both spaces without having to crutch back and forth. He'd tried doing that a day ago, but he'd gotten twisted up and nearly face planted on one of the burners. Eddie had at least had the good grace to catch him before he had glared hard enough to burn a hole through Buck's head, looking like he was five seconds away from banning him from being in the kitchen, even as Buck tried to assure him that the burner wasn't even on.

So they'd compromised, because it didn't take much cajoling for Eddie to realize that forbidding Buck from entering the kitchen was actually just punishing himself. As a result, Buck only has two feet of counter space at his disposal, but he can make it work. He can't take another morning of Christopher pouting because he didn't make pancakes. Christopher's pout, when directed at him, makes him feel like the worst person in the world, even if it's over something as simple as breakfast.

Eddie shrugs. “I don't mind.”

“Yeah, but I do,” Buck retorts, waving the whisk in his hand at Eddie. He was just mixing batter, so some of it splatter on the counter between them. Eddie runs his finger through it and then sucks the batter off. Buck absolutely does not look at him while he does it.

“You'll get over it,” Eddie shoots back.

“Christopher told me you had plans,” Buck says. “But now he's just going to be stuck here with me.”

Eddie laughs, just a little chuckle, but it's enough to make the kitchen feel a little brighter. “If you asked him, Christopher would say it's an upgrade,” he says lightly. “Besides, I was just going to take him to see a movie. He can watch movies with you.

Eddie notices Christopher crutching into the kitchen before Buck does. “You're going to have lots of fun with Buck today, right?” he asks.

Christopher hops up onto the chair next to Eddie. “Yep!” he says, popping the 'p' for emphasis.

And the moment is past, too late to say something about how he feels, but Buck is still a little weirded out that Christopher would prefer spending time with him instead of his dad. He's always felt like Christopher's attachment to him was too much, something misplaced, given that he's only Eddie's best friend, but Eddie never seems to flinch.

“Hey Eddie,” Buck says carefully, and he'd hoped that what he needs to ask Eddie could've been addressed before Christopher joined them, but he'll have to press on anyway.

“Yeah?”

“When can I go back to my apartment?” Buck asks, because he's been here for three days. Eddie's now sure that he's okay, hasn't developed any kind of infection, and hasn't struggled to readjust to using crutches (again).

“Why? Do you need something?” Eddie replies. “I can stop by and get it for you.”

Yes, there is something Buck needs, and that's to escape the frighteningly comfortable domesticity that is him living in Eddie's house. But Eddie's response is so casual, as if it doesn't occur to him that Buck is asking to go back to _living_ in his apartment.

Buck falters. “I uh. I just need some clothes,” he says, smiles and hopes that he doesn't sound too awkward. “Yours barely fit me, and it's getting uncomfortable.”

“Sure.” Eddie nods, give him an understanding smile, while still managing to look vaguely disappointed (and that's—confusing, to say the least).

“You know, I think it's probably—”

Eddie takes another sip of his coffee, then stands up. “I should probably get going,” he interrupts.

Buck flails, sprinkling more batter on the counter as he makes a noise of indignation at Eddie cutting him off. “You haven't even eaten yet!” is what he says, instead of directly calling Eddie out on it.

Eddie presses a kiss to Christopher's head. “Love you,” he says, and Christopher parrots it back. “Sorry,” he adds. “I'm sure it tastes great. But if I'm going to pick up your stuff, I need to leave now.”

“Eddie!” Buck calls after him, but he's already turned and walked out of the kitchen. Buck huffs, and Christopher giggles, and that's enough to momentarily put a smile back on his face. “I guess you're just going to have to eat your dad's share of the pancakes,” he sighs, and earns a toothy grin in response. Buck turns away from Christopher before frowning. Eddie just walked out on him trying to say something important. Buck resolves that Eddie is going to get an earful when he gets home tomorrow.

* * *

Buck forgets. At least, that's what he'd say if anyone asked him (not that anyone would).

The truth is that by the time Eddie gets home the next day, it just doesn't seem important. It should be, especially for Buck's sanity, but he can't find it within himself to care. Not when he spent the whole day playing games and watching movies with Christopher. Not when Eddie smiles softly, leaning up against the doorframe when he gets home. And certainly not when Christopher hugs him, with a brilliant smile and an abundance of energy, declaring loudly that he'll see Buck after school.

Buck's heart feels so full that he's either going to burst, or just keel over right there in Eddie's kitchen. It's not possible to die from loving two people too much, but Buck certainly thinks his body is trying to. Buck lets his head land on the counter with a soft _thunk_.

_Fuck_.

* * *

Hen stops by sometime during the third week after his injury. He's still at Eddie's, hasn't really tried to ask Eddie about leaving since that day during breakfast. He really needs to, knows that it will only hurt worse when he actually has to go back to his apartment. But Christopher is so happy, and sometimes Buck turns around and Eddie is watching him studiously. Eddie must still be worried about him and his recovery from injury. Between that, and the sad look he imagines would be on Christopher's face when he asks, he figures it's just easier to keep his mouth shut.

He thinks she's actually looking for Eddie, since she seems surprised to see Buck there.

“He's running some errands,” Buck says in response to her surprised look.

“I was actually looking for you,” she says carefully. “I hadn't heard from you since you fell and I wanted to check in. But you weren't at your apartment. I thought Eddie might know where you were.”

Buck shrugs. “Been here the whole time.”

“Uh-huh,” Hen replies, disbelieving.

“I've just been busy,” Buck barrels on, pointedly kneading the dough in front him instead of looking Hen in the eye. “Being Christopher's transportation coordinator is a full-time job,” he jokes.

He expects Hen to snort, chuckle, give some indication that she found that funny. She's got two kids of her own, she should understand perfectly. Instead, she just stares at him, dumbfounded.

“You've been living in Eddie's house. For two and half weeks.” She's phrased it as a question, but her tone is weird, almost strained.

“I—he's just worried about me,” Buck replies, feeling his stomach churn uncomfortably. Because he knows what she's thinking. Knows what everyone at the station has been thinking about them for years.

“Hey, I worry about you too. Which—” she stops long enough to give him a back-hand swat, “is the reason I'm here. You haven't texted me back for a week. If it wasn't for Eddie, I would've thought you were lying dead on your apartment floor.”

Buck grins sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“It's okay, I forgive you,” she says, grinning wolfishly. “Now, can we talk about—”

“No we cannot,” Buck warns. “Don't even start.”

“Look, I'm just saying,” Hen says, putting her hands up like she's admitting defeat. “The rest of us worry about you too, would've let you stay with us, but even I would've kicked you to the curb after a couple of days.”

“I know,” Buck answers. “Fuck, I tried after a couple of days. But he acted like it wasn't even a possibility, then fucking ran away from the conversation. It just—seemed easier not to bring it up again.”

_Easier not to confront him_ , Buck doesn't say. Not because Eddie would be mad. Just Buck's discomfort with confrontation rearing it's ugly head again.

“And you don't want to go,” Hen adds, because she's just annoyingly perceptive like that.

“Please don't tell him,” Buck pleads.

Hen covers his hand with her own. “You know I wouldn't,” she says. “Have you talked about it with him?”

“What? No, it's not—he's just extra-worried about me because of Christopher. It's nothing like _that_ ,” he replies, shaking his head because it's not. _It's not_.

Hen is silent for a long moment. “You do remember that he asked you to move into his house before you got hurt?”

“You were listening to that?” Buck questions.

“I was sitting right there,” Hen chuckles. “You didn't even see me. Too busy focusing right in on Eddie.”

“Well then you were there! You would know he was just being nice because I was being a dramatic shit about Veronica,” Buck says, waving her off.

“I—you know what, you're probably right,” she says, though her tone tells Buck that she thinks he's one hundred percent wrong and also an idiot. “Listen, I just came by to check in on you. Since you. Weren't. Answering. Your. Texts,” she continues, punching him lightly in the arm to punctuate every word.

Buck laughs and playfully shoves her back. “Okay, okay, I promise I'll answer next time.”

“Good,” she says, then hugs him.

“You should stay. I can make you something for lunch,” Buck says, but Hen shakes her head.

“No, thanks. I was just stopping by on my way to pick up Nia from a playdate.”

She walks away, stops at the doorway to the kitchen and turns. “You look at home here,” she says, then leaves.

Buck knows he looks it, because he feels it. And isn't that the whole damn problem.

* * *

“You're thinking too hard,” Eddie says instead of announcing himself, and Buck startles so hard he nearly topples over, the stool he's sitting on wobbling precariously. Eddie's standing next to him in less than half a second, a hand on his shoulder and small of his back to steady him.

Buck turns to look at him, and the soft concern on Eddie's face is so much that he has to look away immediately. He's been staring out the window for the last however many minutes since Hen left, the bread dough he was working on left unattended on the counter.

“Jesus Eddie,” Buck breathes out. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

“I've been standing here for five minutes. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. 'Course,” Buck answers. Eddie's hands still haven't moved. “Hen stopped by.”

Eddie hums. “She did?”

“Yeah. Said something. Just got me thinking I guess,” Buck says with a shrug.

“That's dangerous,” Eddie teases, and Buck elbows him in the side, gently. That's enough to get Eddie to let him go. He scoots past Buck, leaning on the counter in front of him. “You want to talk about it?”

“No, I'm fine,” Buck says, then sighs. “I just—it's okay with you that I'm still here, right?”

Eddie's face twists into something impossible to read for the briefest of seconds, before he's able to school it back to something more neutral.

“Of course,” he says, voice purposely flat, then adds, “I think Christopher would cry if you tried to go.”

“I know he would, but I didn't ask about Christopher,” Buck replies, and he knows his voice is coming out strained, but it's just. The way Eddie is so carefully trying to keep Buck from reading his emotions has his haunches up. He's pushing Eddie, and that makes everything inside him cringe.

“Does it matter?” Eddie asks with a shrug. “What Christopher wants is what I want, as long as it doesn't hurt him.”

“You don't have to put up with me just to make Christopher happy.”

“There's nothing to put up with,” Eddie replies, pushes off from the counter, apparently done with this conversation before giving Buck a satisfactory answer. _Again_. “I need a shower before Christopher gets home. And you should probably finish that bread. I think we'll both be disappointed if it doesn't turn out right.”

Buck splutters. “My bread always turns out right!” he calls out after Eddie, listens as Eddie's laughter echoes back down the hall at him.

* * *

Hen's words and Eddie lack of answer bother him, niggle at the back of his mind, but Buck pushes it down. There's no harm in staying a little while longer, right?

* * *

“Love you, Pop.”

Christopher says it as Buck is putting him to bed a couple of days later while Eddie is on a shift. It comes out freely, like it's the easiest, most natural Goddamn thing in the world for Christopher to say.

“Love you too,” Buck manages to choke out, and only just stops himself from slamming Christopher's door shut in panic.

He's got to get the fuck out of this house.

* * *

Buck thinks about calling Maddie. He could probably convince her that he just needs to pick something up, that Eddie will swing by to pick him up later. She would buy it, wouldn't even think twice that Buck is just trying to run away. But she would want to talk, and Buck can't trust himself to open his mouth without having some kind of breakdown or freak out.

He stayed too long. He'd managed to delude himself that it was harmless, that nothing bad could happen if he didn't go. But something bad did happen. Christopher started seeing him as his other dad, counting on him when Buck couldn't promise that he'd stay forever. Simply being someone's best friend didn't automatically carry that kind of assurance.

Buck calls an Uber. It's expensive as hell, but Buck knows he has to go and he still can't drive, his Jeep still in the lot at the station. He has to go now, while Christopher is at school. As an added bonus, Eddie is at work. If he had to walk out while Eddie watched him, it would be the hardest thing Buck ever had to do, but he could do it. But Christopher would look up at him with big eyes and quivering lip and Buck would crumble, he just knows he would.

His apartment is empty, quiet, still. There's a note on the counter, probably from Albert, but Buck doesn't bother reading it. He's exhausted, both emotionally and physically (those two flights up the stairs to his apartment were a bitch). So he plants himself, face first, onto the couch. And if he cries a bit, well. No one has to know.

* * *

“You left.”

The voice startles him, and he rolls off the couch, lands on the floor with a thump. He's not sure how he didn't notice Eddie entering his apartment. Of course Eddie has a key, and probably figured (correctly) that Buck wouldn't bother answering the door.

“I figured you were both getting tired of me,” he finally answers, once he's able to claw his way back onto the couch.

“You made Christopher cry,” Eddie says.

Buck winces. He figured Christopher would, but it doesn't make it any easier to hear. And Eddie is pissed. Almost as angry as that day at the grocery store. The worst part is, this time Buck deserves it.

“Christopher called me Pop,” Buck says as an explanation, though the look he gets from Eddie tells him that Eddie thinks it's a bad one.

“And what? You thought I'd be mad?” Eddie says, and now he doesn't seem mad. Just a little bit somber.

“What? No. Well, maybe. I don't know!” Buck sputters. And his heart is racing because now they're _fighting_ and everything about this makes him want to curl up and cry.

“I thought you already knew,” Eddie says, as if that makes perfect sense. Which it very much does not.

“That Christopher thinks of me as his other dad? No! Why the fuck would I know that?”

“I—then what were you doing these last couple weeks? I thought you understood what was happening,” Eddie says, and he just looks hurt and confused, and Buck feels like he's twenty steps behind Eddie, which _never_ happens, and he doesn't know how to catch up.

“What the fuck, Eddie? You can't just take me to your house, have me stay for _weeks_ , and not talk to me about it,” Buck answers, and his voice is harsh, but he can't get a handle on it because none of this makes sense.

“You didn't exactly force it,” Eddie replies, but he's not harsh like Buck. Buck feels like this would be easier if they were yelling at each other, but right now it's just Buck yelling. Eddie just seems somber. Almost melancholy.

“I tried, twice! And you shut me down both times. You know I'm not good with conflict! Not since...” Buck trails off, not wanting to mention the thing they don't talk about because that's _settled_. He refocuses. “Besides, we're adults, we should be able to have a normal fucking conversation about things without me having to back you into a corner.”

“It—it scared me. It was just easier to assume you knew.”

Buck feels like pulling his hair out. “Knew what? Eddie, I don't have a fucking clue what I'm supposed to know!”

“I wanted you to stay. Live with us. Be a part of our family,” Eddie says, like that's a normal thing to ask.

“Eddie, you can't ask me that. Not when I'm just your best friend. Not when there's going to be someone else, some day,” Buck says, feeling a bit like he's drowning because he has no idea where any of this is going.

“There's never going to be anyone else,” Eddie answers simply, like he's certain of something he can't possibly be.

“You can't promise that. I know losing Shannon still hurts, but you'll get tired of being alone eventually. And then what? I'll just be in the way. And what would that do to Christopher? It would be like losing another parent to him.”

“Do you think I'd let him get this close to you if I was planning on replacing you someday?”

“I don't know! Maybe!”

That's a lie. Buck knows Eddie wouldn't let Christopher get attached to anyone he thought was a flight-risk. Shannon's return was a glaring example of that.

Eddie makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “Buck, are you really this fucking stupid?”

“Excuse me?”

Eddie sighs, reaches out and places his palm on Buck's jaw. And there—there's that look again, the one that Buck can ever seem to figure out. Except this time Eddie's not trying to hide it from him and it stays on his face and oh. _Oh_.

“You love me,” Buck breathes out, and the realization hits him like a ton of bricks, so hard that he almost physically falls back. But Eddie's hand is on his cheek, anchoring him, holding him up. He stares, finding himself at a loss for words.

“Yeah. Sorry,” Eddie says, looking down at his lap bashfully.

“I—fuck, did you just apologize for being in love with me?” Buck says, because what a ridiculous thing to do. Except wait. Fuck. Eddie said he loves him and Buck has just been gaping at him like some kind of stupid person. It's apparently the theme for him tonight. “Eddie, I love you too.”

The hopeful grin he gets in response makes Buck's heart flutter in a way probably should be concerning.

“Yeah?” is all Eddie says in response.

“Yeah,” Buck says. “Fuck, what are we waiting—can I kiss you?”

“Yes.”

So Buck does, brushes his lips over Eddie's, and it's everything and not enough all at once. Eddie hums out a contented noise, and Buck smiles against his mouth. Something settles in him, something that's felt out of place since the moment he first met Eddie. Like the universe knew they were meant for each other, and was trying to alert him to it.

Buck pulls back, but only far enough to rest his forehead against Eddie's. He lets his eyes flutter shut.

“Eddie?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we go back home?”

Because now that he knows what Eddie feels, knows what his place in their lives is, it's the simplest thing to call Eddie's house _home_.

Buck opens his eyes, and the soft smile Eddie is giving him is blinding.

“Yeah.”

* * *

(Buck has to grovel his way back into Christopher's good graces. Even though he only left for a couple of hours. Buck offers up a week of pancakes and a trip to the zoo once he's out of his cast. Christopher takes the deal, and Eddie mutters that he's being too easy on Buck. Christopher considers this carefully, then declares that Buck also has to take Eddie out for dinner. _On a date_ , he adds with emphasis. Eddie's eyes go comically wide, but Buck just laughs and agrees. He kisses Eddie on the cheek—his eyes are on Buck, but he can feel Christopher beaming—then crutches off to the kitchen, leaving Eddie to deal with the fact that their kid is probably too smart for his own good.)

**Author's Note:**

> I have several other ideas. Hopefully you'll see them soon (unless this flops) :)


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